


Stress Management

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Brad POV, Canon Era, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-14
Updated: 2008-08-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combat stress usually had him cleaning his gun or getting off—this desire to poke at his platoon commander was new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stress Management

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened. 
> 
> Set the night after their trek through Al Gharraf, March 25th. Spoilers for Part 2 "The Cradle of Civilization." Originally posted [here](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/310204.html).

Hours later and the adrenaline high still hadn't worn off. Brad was wandering around in a half-stupor and at least it was night so no one could see him showing weakness. Then again, he probably wouldn't be tripping over a Marine in the midst of a combat jack every five fuckin' seconds, either.

Trade off.

Brad didn't need to see Trombley doing that, thank you, so here he was, determinedly not looking for his lieutenant. Which was obviously why he found him so quickly, hunched over his map, none of his attendants around.

Probably jerking themselves silly, the fuckers.

"Of course you're memorizing the map," Brad said as he propped a hip against the hood of the LT's ride and his gun against a tire. "'Cause you can't stop for two seconds."

Brad's appearance had garnered a companionable, if brief, nod and then Nate was back focused on the map. The red light cast him in an eerie glow.

"Like you do?" Nate asked mildly. And this was definitely _Nate_ , not Lieutenant Fick, and for some reason Brad felt his muscles finally relax.

"You kidding? I'm practically on libo. All I need is a drink with a fuckin' umbrella in it and I'm set."

Nate shook his head. "We spend the day getting shot at and that puts you in a good mood." He paused. "Actually, I should have seen that one coming." 

Brad let a smile show through. Nate's eyes flicked to his mouth and then away, a mischievous tilt to his head. 

"It's probably a good thing all those gas alerts were false. With this trend mustard gas would've had you halfway to getting off."

Brad resisted the urge to smile. Nate was in as good a mood as any; he just had to be an officer about it. 

Instead of smiling he half-shrugged, nonchalant. "What else you gonna do sittin' around in a gas attack? Tossing one off seems as good an idea as any."

"Ahh, but what it would've done to morale."

" _For_ morale. I happen to know that my team would've found it reassuring." 

Nate pursed his lips and nodded, decisive. "The things I do not want to know about your team just increased by one," he informed Brad solemnly.

"Kinda hypocritical since you're hard right now," Brad shot right back.

Nate looked down at himself obviously and Brad just had to release his hold on the smile, shake his head. Oh, the differences between the LT and Nate. And the others had no idea.

The thought pleased him, somewhere stupid and annoying and downright fuckin' _gay_.

Which he didn't examine too closely and right, he was joking with Nate and it was his turn, wasn't it? Brad stepped forward, leaned into Nate's space, and planted a nice wet one right in between his eyes. He made sure to put some extra smack in it, just for kicks.

He leaned his head back, looked down at Nate—using his full height for once—and said seriously: "Was it good for you?"

Only Nate wasn't looking at him or joking or smiling or even blushing. No, he was looking down and to the right, where land became inky blackness without NVGs.

And he was far too still.

"Went to all that trouble to fulfill your fantasies and I don't even get a response?" Brad shook his head sadly. "Kids these days."

Nate finally smiled, just slight, and inclined his head toward Brad. "Thank you for popping my gay cherry," he said solemnly. 

And the thing was—the thing was Brad would have laughed it off...if Nate's seriousness wasn't far too grave. Like he was grasping at a joke by playing it deadpan cool.

Brad was the fucking _God_ of deadpan cool; he knew when it was real and when it was a façade. He _knew_ Nate was hiding in this moment.

Brad suddenly became aware that yes, he was still standing _that close_ to Nate and yes, he could still see everything flicking through Nate's eyes.

Nate dropped his eyes to Brad's chest, then over to the map.

Hiding.

And Brad was so used to being inside people's personal space, it was such an accustomed thing—he was fucking eight feet tall and squished inside a fucking matchstick box with four other men, for God's sake. He hadn't thought—but Nate touched him all the time. Reassuring pats on the arm, not like he'd never—

His brain cycled through way too many things at once, couldn't seem to settle. He hated that feeling.

"Huh," Brad said aloud.

It got Nate's attention. And a quizzical look.

"Don't like me touching you, LT?" Brad asked mildly.

"I'm sorry?"

Brad shifted and deliberately draped an arm over Nate's shoulder, again placing himself squarely inside Nate's comfort zone. Apparently.

Nate looked at Brad's arm like it might detach from Brad's body, animate, and try to do dirty wrong things to him. 

Like he'd be so lucky.

"What are you talking about?" Nate asked, but he had inched away already. And looked fit to squirm right out from under Brad the moment he could excuse it.

Brad...wasn't thinking too hard about why that bothered him. He did a lot of not-thinking when it came to Nate. It helped.

Or, well, used to. Before the guy went and got all weird over a fuckin' joking smack to the forehead. Little Miss Priss; couldn't stand to be manhandled. That must suck in bed.

"You must have a trail of unsatisfied women left behind you," Brad mused.

And _that_ definitely got Nate's attention; his eyes narrowed. "Brad, have you been huffing gas fumes?"

"Women like to be all touchy-feely you know. It's chemical. Leaving right after? Not very gentlemanly." Was he inappropriately needling his lieutenant? Possibly. Was he about to stop? 

All signs pointed to no.

Nate seemed at a loss. "I don't—"

"Actually, I'm rather proud. You're a man after all. You've—"

Brad stopped talking only because Nate's hand closed over his mouth and _made_ him. He should really try that with Ray sometime. Good plans, his LT had.

Oh, God, _had_ he been huffing gas fumes? Combat stress usually had him cleaning his gun or getting off—this desire to poke at his platoon commander was new.

But, right, Nate in his face and using his whole height—sad, desperate attempt—to stand up to Brad and he was _right there_ , speaking low and quiet and staring into Brad's eyes.

"I have no problem being touchy-feely. In fact, I've been accused by that string of women of being too clingy," Nate said, matter-of-fact.

His hand was on Brad's mouth and he stood in Brad's space and he met Brad's gaze evenly...so no personal space issues, it seemed. But then why—

His assumption was Nate moved away because he was uncomfortable. Brad abruptly reversed the mental direction. And that...led places he'd been carefully not thinking about.

Only now he'd opened that door and rushed ass-first right through it, hadn't he? _Fuck_.

Brad opened his mouth and breathed _out_ against Nate's palm.

Nate's eyes dropped to look at the back of his hand. Something vulnerable appeared briefly in his eyes. But then he let go and pulled back—

_Tried_ to pull back and couldn't, what with the grip Brad had on his jacket.

"Brad, what the fuck?" Nate groused, irritated now.

But Brad's brain was busy cycling through more of those delicious _possibilities_ so he changed his mind, let Nate move back and instead went with him. His momentum carried him into Nate and both of them into the truck. Which really didn't yield. 

Nate's breath oofed out of him.

"I'm really starting to fear I was right about the gas fumes," Nate muttered. But Brad's hands found his cheekbones and the feel of fingers there shut him the fuck up.

And then Nate was looking a question at him, but Brad wasn't paying attention because Nate _had moved away_. Because he _liked it too much_.

So he did the only sensible thing and leaned all the way down, touched their mouths together.

Nate inhaled in shock, a short gasp _in_ that had his mouth open and then Brad's mouth opened and they stood there, mouths barely connected, teetering on the edge of some unnamable _thing_ and all Brad could think was _God_ , it had been too long since he'd done this with someone he liked, could bring himself to respect, whatever.

A long fucking time since he'd actually kissed someone.

It was another of those stupid thoughts he tended to ignore when it came to Nate, only that wasn't quite possible at the moment.

Soft mouth against his and Brad was starting to think neither one of them was gonna survive this—they would just stay here, breathing into each other's mouths before the Iraqis killed them or more likely Trombley did—and what the fuck had he been thinking? He hadn't been, obviously, because it was never the sensible thing to go up and fucking kiss your platoon commander like he was some goddamn flighty, virginal fourteen-year-old _girl_ and—

Nate released a shaky breath and Brad felt the reverberations of that _all over_. And then Nate tilted his face _up_ , just slight, but it was enough to snap the tether in Brad's mind.

And then he had Nate firmly pushed back against the truck and he sucked him into a _real_ kiss. A kiss with tongue and moving mouths and heat and Nate took it all and gave it back with fucking _interest_ —no lily-white pure soul here—his hand fisted in Brad's shirt and trying to pull him even closer. 

Their bodies slid against one another's, tumbling them from a kiss into something more, and it was ridiculous with all their gear and impossible and also kind of gross, but his cock didn't seem to care. They clicked into some kind of groove—he and Nate always had been on the same wavelength—and Brad's very hard cock was suddenly pressed up against Nate's very firm hip and then he was gasping as lightning slid down his spine.

Nate was hard, too, and moving with him. By his ragged breathing, he wasn't too much better off.

And then it was rocking against each other and licking the sounds out of each other's mouths and they'd utterly lost their fucking minds, part of him knew. Up against a truck in the middle of their encampment and anyone could walk by and this would be over. A lot more than this would be over.

But Nate was as hard as he was and thrusting just as determinedly against him, so it was gonna be over one way or the other soon enough and Brad would be ashamed but _goddamn_ had it been a long time and Nate's mouth was not only pretty but _talented_ and he'd love to see what it could—

Nate shuddering against him shouldn't have been hot. It undeniably was, a fact with which his body agreed mightily because no sooner had Nate lost it than Brad felt his own orgasm roll through him, completely unexpected. It made his fingers tingle, that same kind of sheer terror he got from being out in the deep sea. Only here he'd found it in Nate's _mouth_ and it made him come like a fucking force of nature, like he hadn't thought possible.

Nate Fick's mouth...all kinds of inspiration.

Then they were both breathless and using the truck to keep them vertical and probably suffocating Nate's map, but neither of them was about to move and rescue the damned thing.

Brad had a pliant, sated Nate under him, pinned against a hard surface...and something deeply _satisfied_ slipped through him. He liked it. 

All kinds of oddities in Brad's head suddenly clicked and made sense.

"Fuck," Nate breathed. He slumped back even further. It was...interestingly flexible.

"Got it in one. Guess that's what an Ivy League education gets you."

And Nate looked up—pupils blown, lips puffy—and Brad wanted to push him up on the hood of this truck, climb on top of him, and do it all over again. Godfather could fucking _watch_ for all he cared.

Brad licked his lips and Nate's eyes dropped and _Christ_ , they were never getting out of here.

He _wrenched_ himself back and stumbled a few steps away. It brought all the little realities of this back to him: like how he'd creamed himself, oh-so-lovely, and how Nate was an officer whom he respected very much and _fuck_ , how completely and utterly fucking _fucked_ he was.

Nate propped himself up, _things_ flicking rapidly through his eyes, only Brad couldn't see them clearly any longer. At least he wasn't splayed out over his truck like a fucking offering, but still, anyone looking at him would know that something was up. Or had been.

Especially since they were staring at each other like a couple lobotomized morons, but a tiny part of Brad would _not_ let him look away first.

Nate blinked, kind of shook his head, and dropped his eyes. He smiled—at himself, at Brad, he had no idea. When he met Brad's eyes again he was back in control. He pulled himself away from the truck, grimaced, and straightened himself.

His hand idly reached for the map.

Brad moved back toward him a couple steps. "Nate—"

"It's fine, Brad," he said instantly, like he'd been rehearsing it in his head, knew he was supposed to say it.

Brad let out a slow breath, skin still pulsing, whole body still _wanting_ even though he'd come not five minutes ago. "Is it?"

Nate met his gaze, head-on...he was a Marine officer for a _reason_. Thoughtful and idealistic and too smart by half, sure, but still a fucking badass to the core. He looked his demons in the eyes just to prove he could. Sometimes Brad forgot that.

"Of course. Anything you need, Brad, you know that." Stated, thrown down between them, and did that mean he could just—

No. Not going there. His brain would fucking spin out with the scenarios and then they'd all be fucked. Even more.

"I'll keep that in mind. Sir," Brad added, mind blank. He collected his gun, nodded, and started away, carefully not-thinking.

"Please do," followed after him, muttered but carried on Iraq's ever-present wind.

Well. Didn't _that_ put a new spin on stress management?

Brad let a smile show now that no one could see, then moved purposefully toward his grave. Sleep no longer seemed like such a fantasy.

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.


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